“Jenn,” I said, shaking her shoulder again. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly into slits, as if this might actually make me go away. “You have to get up. You don’t want Chris to see you like this, right?”

She groaned, clearly annoyed, but allowed me to get her into a seated position. Then her eyes flew open. “Chris is here? Are you serious?”

“He’s in the kitchen. With Margaret.”

Her head fell forward, hitting her chest. “Oh, God. This is awful. It’s not like I had a chance, but if he sees me all pukey like this—”

“He won’t,” I told her. “Just focus on standing up. I’ll get you out of here.”

She moaned again, but leaned back onto her hands, pushing herself to her feet while I eased the door open and peered down the hallway. The quarters game was still going on in the kitchen, with Margaret at the head of the table, Chris opposite her, and Charlie and Huck on either side. As I watched, Chris bounced a coin into a cup, then pointed at Margaret. She grinned, picking up her glass.

I looked back at Jenn, who was holding on to the sink for support. “Come on. It’s now or never.”

She stepped forward, and I slid my arm over her shoulder, then flipped off the bathroom light before stepping into the dark hallway. It was only about four feet to the living room, through which I planned to access the stairs to get her to her bedroom. After a few steps, though, there was a sharp, desperate squeeze of my hand. I stopped walking.

“Might puke,” she whispered. I waited, holding my own breath. Then she exhaled. “Okay, let’s keep going.”

We continued like this past the sofa and coffee table, then the piano, stopping twice more. Just as we passed the front door, the bell sounded.

“Oh, God,” Jenn moaned, squeezing my hand again. “I might—”

This time, I had a feeling she meant it. Without thinking, totally desperate, I threw the door open and pushed her out onto the front steps, where she grabbed the wrought-iron railing, leaned over it, and heaved into the bushes. On the steps beside her, holding a pizza box and wearing a SEASIDE PIZZA T-shirt, was Mac Chatham.

At first, this fact just did not compute. It was like I’d dreamed or conjured him, except for the throwing-up part. Gingerly, he stepped aside as Jenn puked again, then looked at me, raising his eyebrows.

“Hi,” I managed to say over Jenn’s retching. “What’s up?”

He gave me a flat look. “You ordered pizza?”

“I didn’t,” I said. Now he looked confused. “I mean, they did. Or this girl here did. I didn’t realize . . .”

“Sydney,” Jenn moaned, then slid down into a heap on the steps by his feet. “Help.”

“Excuse me,” I said to Mac, shooting him an apologetic look as I shut the door behind me, then came out and crouched down next to Jenn. I ran a hand over her matted hair, then explained, “It’s her birthday.”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Um, happy birthday.”

At this, she slumped into me. Before I knew what was happening, her head was in my lap, legs curled up against the railing. I just sat there, not sure what to do. A moment later, she was snoring.

I looked up at Mac. “I’ll . . . I’ve got money in my pocket. What do I owe you for the pizza?”

I figured he’d be more than relieved to tell me, get paid, and be on his way, as I could not imagine a more unpleasant scenario to stumble into. Instead, setting what I did not yet realize would be a precedent, Mac surprised me.

“Let’s get her inside first,” he said. “The last thing you want is neighbors seeing this.”

He had a point. The houses on Jenn’s street were close together, and all the ones across the way still had lights on. “You don’t have to help me,” I told him. “Really.”

To this he said nothing, instead just holding out the pizza warmer to me. I took it, not sure what was happening until he bent down, scooping Jenn up in his arms. Her head flopped against his shoulder, and she stirred slightly, but then she was out again. “Lead the way,” he said.

I did. Through the front door, where I put down the warmer on a side table, and then up the stairs and down the hall to Jenn’s dark room. As I flicked on the light, stepping inside, it occurred to me that of all the ways I’d thought this night might end, me in a bedroom with Mac Chatham was the very last one of them.

He, however, seemed pretty much at ease, as if he dumped unconscious strange girls into their beds on a regular basis. Which I could only hope he did not. Once Jenn hit the mattress, she groaned and curled into a ball, pressing her face into her pillow. I went over and took off her shoes.

“You’ll probably want to get her a glass of water,” he told me. “And a trash can, if there is one around.”

There was, and I got it, along with the water and a damp towel, which I put on her forehead. When all this was done, I stepped back beside Mac, who was just inside the doorway. “She never drinks,” I told him. “I don’t know what she was thinking.”

“She probably wasn’t,” he replied. “It happens. Especially on birthdays.”

“She’ll be okay, right?”

“Just needs to sleep it off.” I bit my lip, still worried. “Sydney. She’s fine.”

There was something in the way he said this, my name so familiar, the sentiment so confident and reassuring, that was more touching, actually, than anything else he’d done so far.